What Once Was Lost
by Lt. Basil
Summary: A year after the events of A New Hope, a Jedi and a clone journey to Nar Shaddaa to recruit an old friend. Sitting alone in a cantina, a bitter, guilt-ridden old man with nothing left to live for is reminded of the person he used to be. Warnings: alcoholism, swearing, referenced character death and mild violence. Read at your own risk.


**A/N: As some of you already know, one of my previous works,** _ **Hope and Power,**_ **was scrapped due to OOC characters, inaccuracies, and quite a few other problems.** _ **HaP**_ **is currently being rewritten in the replacement fic,** _ **Brothers in Arms,**_ **but there was one chapter in the original version that I absolutely love and can't bear to completely destroy. So now it's a oneshot. It's been edited so that it is now able to stand on its own, and the characters have been changed from Rex, Echo and Ahsoka to some of my OCs, Mech, Sharp and Rens. You might recognize them from the** _ **Contrast**_ **arc in** _ **We Are More.**_

 **Content warnings: Major alcohol abuse, mild swearing, referenced character death and mild violence**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars or TCW or anything related to it, that belongs to Disney and Lucasfilms and plenty of other people who aren't me. I only own the OCs. This is purely a fan-made project, and is not making any profit. Blah Blah Blah etc.**

 **Anyway, enjoy!**

In the darkest corner of the known galaxy, slumped in the corner of some obscure cantina on the surface of Nar Shadda, was a haggard old man in mandalorian armor. His helmet sat on the seat beside him, dented and rusty and scratched, with no real color save for a few patches of peeling green paint. Black gauntlets garbed his hands and wrists, stopping to meet the old, grayish armor covering his arms and torso. Only his left leg had any protection on it; his right was an ancient-looking, metallic prosthetic. A mop of scraggly, graying brown hair grew out of his olive-skinned head, half obscuring his battle-scarred face. His eyes were closed, the lids fluttering against the bruised skin beneath them. Every now and then a snore would echo from his partially open mouth.

If any of the other patrons were bothered by his drunken stupor, they did not show it. A pair of Duros turned their giant red eyes to his table once, but they quickly looked away, uninterested. All in all, he had chosen a pretty good place to crash uninterrupted. At least… that's what _he_ thought.

The doors to the cantina slid open with a _hiss,_ revealing a battered-looking male human garbed in a shabby brown jacket and threadbare gray slacks. His face was hidden by a heavy, iron hunting mask, but it was easy to see the shock of bright red hair peeking out from around it and the dark-colored skin on the back of his neck. Pausing in the doorway, the newcomer scanned the room. His head swiveled this way and that, searching. Then his shielded eyes found the one-legged mandalorian. Shaking his head in a pitying manner, the stranger strode purposefully over to his table, crossed his arms, and kicked the shin of the man's good leg. He woke with a start.

"Whaddaya want?" he slurred, opening bleary, bloodshot brown eyes to glare at the intruder. Unfazed, the man plopped down on the seat across from him and put his feet up on the table, arms still crossed. The mandalorian shoved at his legs weakly. "I already paid my taab…" he drawled, scowling. Giving the stranger his best glare (which in his drunken state was _not_ particularly impressive), he mumbled, "Get lost."

"Sorry, Captain, but I can't do that just yet," the newcomer remarked, eying him impassively through his mask. The drunken man stiffened, and sat up unsteadily. Peering through bleary, shadowed eyes, he looked the stranger over. His companion did not react beyond gazing at him expectantly. Finally, the drunk spoke again.

"Sorry, have we met?"

Though the stranger's face was completely hidden, the mandalorian could almost have _sworn_ that he smirked at him.

"Why, yes," the newcomer said brightly. "It was a long time ago, but I'd never forget that scowl, Mech."

Upon hearing his name, the mandalorian stiffened. He sat up a little straighter, his eyes focusing as his adrenaline spiked and muted the effects of the drink. Eyes narrowing, he gave the stranger another calculating look.

"What are you, some kind of shock trooper?" Mech snapped, glaring at his companion viciously. The man fidgeted, but said nothing. Pressing on, Mech snarled, "You here to kill me, _brother?"_ He spat out that last word like it was a curse.

Sighing, the stranger removed his feet from atop the table and leaned forward in his seat, shoulders drooping. He shook his head at Mech.

"Wrong on both counts, Captain. I'm no shock trooper – hell, I don't even work for the Empire! And I'm certainly not here to kill you."

Mech raised a skeptic eyebrow. Muttering a curse under his breath, the stranger added, "Look, I know that with all that's going on, it's hard to take anyone's word on anything, but will you please just hear me out? This is something you need to hear."

Mech glowered. "And why the hell should I trust you?" he snarled.

His companion stiffened. In a flash, he had grabbed the back of Mech's neck and shoved his head nose-first into the tabletop. Even through the mask, Mech could feel the man's hot breath blasting his scalp.

"If I'd wanted to kill you, I'd have shot you in your sleep," he hissed. "In case you didn't notice, I didn't do that." Behind the mask, his eyes flashed. Mech scowled. "Now sit up and let me finish, _Captain._ " And with that, he released him.

Massaging his now aching neck, Mech glared at the newcomer with unveiled hostility. "You can't scare me," he declared, eyes blazing in his anger. "I don't give an osik about pain, and death would be an improvement." A gnarled hand reached out for the bottle of Corellian whiskey he'd been downing, but it came up empty. Apparently it had been knocked onto the floor when the newcomer had shoved the tabletop in his face. Mech cursed.

Crossing his arms once again, the stranger gave the captain a long look. With his greasy hair, bloodshot eyes and soiled armor, he looked like a typical deadbeat, drunken hermit – the kind that didn't care if the universe crashed and burned as long as he could get his next shot of juma juice. But there was a haunted look in his eyes as well – the broken, hopeless look of a man who had failed one time too many. In his eyes the stranger saw his hatred towards the Empire, his anger at his own uselessness, and his grief over the millions of brothers that he had lost – one way or the other – to the Emperor.

In Mech's eyes he saw the tortured soul of a man who had lost everything.

"What happened to you?" he asked quietly, looking at the clone trooper with pity. "You used to be so full of fire. Nothing _ever_ fazed you! You were the man that all our younger brothers looked to as a role model! And now…" He gestured to the pathetic hunk of flesh in front of him.

Cringing, Mech clenched his hands into fists. "What's it to you?" he growled, eyes boring into the table.

The stranger sighed and leaned back. "Just want to know what happened to make the captain of my legion… a man I looked up to more than almost anyone else… go off the deep end like this."

Mech chuckled humorlessly. "'Captain of your legion'? Who are you, then? Rory? Jet?"

Solemnly, the stranger reached up and removed his mask.

Mech stared.

The man's face was riddled with scar tissue, covered in slashes and a patch of mottled skin on his left cheek indicative of a plasma burn. His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken and hadn't healed right. But that wasn't what caught Mech's notice.

No, what caught his notice were the intelligent, electric blue eyes that seemed to pin him in place, and the fiery shock of longish red hair that completely defied his dark complexion yet still inexplicably looked completely natural.

"Sharp," Mech whispered. "You're… alive?"

Sharp rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well _obviously_ ," he retorted with a derisive snort. "If I was dead then I wouldn't be here right now, would I?"

It was as if the floor had just fallen out from under Mech's feet; he paled visibly, and his hands began to shake. Groaning, he brought his hand up to forehead to rub his throbbing temple. "I must've hit that whiskey harder than I thought," he mumbled, clutching the edge of the table with his free hand.

Scowling suspiciously, Mech peered at the stranger through slitted eyes. His lip curled. "No. You're not Sharp," he slurred, jabbing a finger at the man's chest. "Sharp's dead. Has been for over twenty years!"

But "Sharp" just sighed and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. _Why me?_ "Yes, I am, and no, I haven't. _Force…_ "

Mech crossed his arms and glared at him. "I don't believe you," he spat. Then, softer, sadder; "I can't believe you. Not after…" He shook his head.

Sharp looked at him, dead serious. "Ask me something then. Something that no one else could ever know. If I'm not who I say I am, I won't be able to answer." The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. Mech raised his eyebrows.

"You're kidding me," he snorted, looking away. But Sharp shook his head fervently.

"Go ahead," he challenged the captain. "Ask me."

Mech sighed and rested his head in his hands, massaging his temples to calm the ache as a hangover started setting in. He wracked his brains for a question, but his whiskey-addled mind was making it hard to think. Finally, though, he managed to wrap his mind around one.

"On Devaron," he began. Sharp stiffened. "When Zach, Sketch and I came up to meet with Krell… what was the first thing that General Phalco said when she caught up with us?" His eyes pinned the other man down into his seat.

Sharp immediately relaxed. In spite of himself, he grinned. "Krell's got a stick so far up his butt that he can't tell the difference between a clone trooper and a blaster pistol," he replied, a touch of fondness leaking into his voice as he recalled Rens' words.

Something in Mech's gaze fired upon hearing Sharp's response. He opened his mouth, about to speak, but thought better of it a moment later. Instead, he shook his head and averted his gaze, thunderstruck. Disbelief was evident in every line of his wrinkled face.

Finally, he wilted, shoulders sagging in acceptance and resignation. "What do you want, Sharp?" he sighed wearily, rubbing his blurred eyes. "I'm busy."

"Doing what, exactly?" Sharp scoffed, annoyed. He gestured around the cantina, at the thugs and criminals and scoundrels and common drunks sprawled about in various surrounding tables. "Wasting yourself in the slums of some backwater, crime-ridden hunk of rock?"

He snorted, putting his feet up on the table once again. "If we were in the GAR, you'd be reconditioned by now." He motioned to Mech's tangled hair and soiled armor. "Have you looked at yourself lately, Captain?"

Mech's eyes flashed. He moved to stand up, but his legs were still so unsteady that he fell back into his seat almost immediately. Nevertheless, he glared daggers at his former soldier.

"Shut your mouth, Lieutenant!" he snarled. "What I do with my life is my own damn business! Besides…" His face darkened. "If we were still in the GAR, we'd be hassling shinies or gunning down civilians right now." He scowled.

Sharp grabbed Mech's arm, whole body rigid with urgency. "And that's why I came to find you," he stated. "You've got experience fighting the Empire. The Rebel Alliance could use more soldiers like you. We could really use your help, Mech. To stop all this destruction. To rebuild the Republic that way that it _should_ be."

He stared hard at his companion, pleading. "We need you, Captain."

Making a face, Mech shrugged him off. Anger radiated from him in dark, burning waves. "So _that's_ what this is about?" he spat. "A recruitment drive?"

Startled, Sharp nodded nervously.

"Well… yes… I guess so…"

This time, Mech really _did_ stand up, slamming his fists on the table hard enough to make Sharp jump. "And what the hell makes you think that I want to get dragged into another massacre?!" Sharp flinched and averted his gaze.

But Mech wasn't done venting, oh no. "I already fought in one rebellion," he snarled. "Thirteen years of one! Every man I served with during that time _died_ in those battles! Skip! Morgan! Zach…"

Pain dominated his expression at the mention of his old friends. He cringed. "And for all of that, what good did it do? None, that's what. Nothing's changed…" The captain dropped back into his seat, one hand pressed to his forehead. He shook his head wearily. "I'm sorry, Sharp, but I won't get involved in another bloodbath. Not again."

Sharp was silent for a few moments, clasping his hands on the tabletop in front of him and staring off into space. Around them, the sounds of the cantina hummed back into focus; the clinking of glasses and bottles; the obnoxious, static-filled background music; the raucous laughter of the more sober patrons; the snores and heaves of the less sober ones. From outside, the roar of the wind, the purring of the hundreds of airspeeders rushing to and fro, the whispers of everyday life, could be heard clearly. In Sharp's silence, Mech felt as if the whole planet was whispering in his ear, calling him to action, shaming him for his despair. He pushed the sensation away.

"So that's it, then?" Sharp said at last. His tone was bitter and disappointed. Mech flinched. "You're giving up? Just like that?" Disgust had filled his voice.

Mech said nothing in his defense.

"What do you plan to do, then?" Sharp continued angrily. "Drink yourself to death in some gutter while the galaxy burns around you? What kind of life is that?"

The captain sighed and shifted in his seat, accidentally knocking his helmet onto the ground with his artificial leg. "You sound like Tano," he muttered. "What if I don't what a life, Sharp?" he said more loudly. There was a dark undercurrent in his tone. "What if I'm tired of living?"

His eyes drifted closed. He crossed his arms defiantly. "Can't just let old age get me since Skirata reversed my accelerated aging. So what if I get myself killed here? Dying would be an improvement."

Sharp leaned forward to glare pointedly at Mech. But the captain kept his eyes defiantly closed, not even acknowledging the younger man's presence.

Despite this, Sharp pointed at Mech's nose and remarked, "I don't think you really believe that."

No reply.

"I think you want to keep fighting, but don't have enough faith in yourself left to try again."

Still no reply.

Resigned, Sharp stood up, replaced his mask, and began to walk away. But after only a few steps, he paused.

"Kento's son is one of the rebel leaders," he told him softly.

Mech's eyes snapped open, staring at Sharp in shock.

Sensing that he'd struck home, Sharp pressed, "You knew Kento, didn't you? He helped you get back on your feet after you defected from Vader's forces. Isn't that right, Captain?"

"How do you know about that?!" Mech hissed. Sharp turned around fully, then, staring his brother down.

"Commander Tano told me."

"Of _course_ she did," Mech muttered sourly, wagging his head. He glared pointedly at his hands, purposefully ignoring Sharp.

Recognizing his cue to go, Sharp sighed and turned his back on him yet again.

"My offer still stands," he informed Mech. "The new recruits are going to meet at Kento's old hut on Kashyyk in three standard weeks. My ship leaves tomorrow morning."

Sharp paused then, waiting to see if the captain would react. He didn't. The red-haired clone continued: "If you change your mind, meet me by Pylon 1 on the docks at 0700 tomorrow morning. We'll be leaving around 0730. Goodbye, Mech." And then he was gone.

Mind swimming, Mech placed his head on the table and groaned. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? He'd gone to Nar Shadda to disappear. No more Empire, no more clumsy, brainless stormtroopers shooting at him, no more Darth Vader or Darth Sidious or even just war in general. He was sick of trying, sick of failing. Was it too much to ask for him to be able to die in peace? He could join all of his fallen brothers, then – Benji and Hawkeye and Patch, Fives and Echo, Myles and Gale and even _Boil._ He could finally be free of all of the pain and guilt and betrayal that hung over him like a toxic storm cloud. What would that feel like?

Sharp was right about one thing, though – his self-loathing had gone through the roof. He'd failed once, by not seeing Palpatine's darkness for what it was; twice by carrying out Order 66; a third time by remaining loyal to Vader for a full year after the Empire was established; and a fourth in the forests of Onderon, watching as nearly every rebel soldier serving with him, clone and otherwise, was massacred, with only a dozen or so escaping with their lives. And he was failing now, just by sitting there, filthy and scrawny and sick, only half sober with a nasty hangover rendering him nearly immobile. Who's to say he wouldn't screw up a sixth time? Better to just let himself die than to have him inevitably get somebody else killed.

And yet… Mech hated the Empire for the way they treated the innocent… the way that they abused and crippled and murdered weaker creatures without a second thought. The idea of doing something that would bring Vader to his knees certainly had its appeal. He desperately wanted them all to suffer for the injustices that they'd committed against the people of this galaxy.

But what hope did one tiny band of misfits have against the Imperial army? These weren't the organized, well-amassed Separatist forces of the Clone Wars era, equipped with powerful weapons and score upon score of droid and organic soldiers alike. This "Rebel Alliance" that Sharp spoke of was a ragtag group of kids wielding blaster rifles and other pilfered equipment, if even half of the rumors about them were true. And the fact remained that Mech was neither ready nor willing to watch another army (and consequently, another comrade) get slaughtered on some distant planet while he stood back, unable to save them. He could never go through that again.

But still…

With such thoughts on his mind, Mech hailed one of the waiters and ordered another bottle of whiskey.

XXX

The docks of Nar Shadda were a gray and impersonal as a port could be – a vast contrast to the majority of the planet, which was vibrant with colored lights and graffiti and tinny music. There was no such vibrancy on the docks; only the wheezing drone of passing ships and/or airspeeders and the sight of various different freighters and shuttles and other small vessels parked on adjacent landing pads. Everything reeked of oil and smoke and fuel, rendering the air only just barely breathable. The only thing there was that held any real _life_ to it was a brightly lit neon sign suspended over the rusty, airtight entrance to some nonhuman-exclusive cantina. On the sign were three words; _Jekk Jekk Tarr._

Leaning next to the entrance with a bored expression on her face was a female near-human with bright violet eyes. Her skin was dark, approximately the color of cinnamon. There were crow's feet around her eyes and slight wrinkles on her cheeks, and her thick black hair was streaked with gray. She was garbed in a simple gray tunic, threadbare and maybe a little shabby, but considerably cleaner than the clothing of most of the other city residents. On her feet she wore simple and light but durable black boots. Around her waist was a belt fitted with so many pouches and small pockets that there was no way of knowing what sort of knickknacks and junk she was hiding in there. To complete the image, a large blaster rifle was strapped across her back.

Not uttering a single word, the woman walked over to the edge of the docking platform, leaned against the railing, and waited. The gesture was so casual that no passerby bothered to give her more than just a brief, uninterested glance. Seemingly bored, the woman yawned, scratched the back of her neck, and started humming tunelessly even as her eyes started to glaze over. She tapped her foot restlessly, obviously displeased with having to stand still, but did not otherwise move.

Some sense in the back of her brain tingled. She could feel someone approaching her from her right, just in her blind spot. Judging from the way that they were moving, they were trying to be as sneaky and inconspicuous as possible. The woman smirked. _Nice try, mister,_ she thought smugly, _but you're gonna have to do better than that if you want to sneak up on_ me. Despite these thoughts, she did not show any sign that she could sense his advance; he was fifty feet away, now twenty, now ten, now just about to touch her –

"Hello Sharp," former Jedi General Rens Phalco greeted cheerfully, turning to grin at the newcomer. "Nice weather we're having today." The man froze.

"How do you do that?" he complained, coming to lean on the railing beside her. He crossed his arms and pouted at her through his mask. Rens smirked at him smugly. His ears turned bright red.

Sharp rolled his eyes but smiled affectionately all the same. "Right. Fine. Okay." Muttering to himself, he turned his head to face the area right in front of him (also known as the first control station, or "Pylon 1"). He stared off into space, saying nothing. An awkward silence stretched between them for a few minutes, broken only when Rens cleared her throat and asked the question that they'd come to Nar Shadda to get the answer for.

"So what's the verdict?" she inquired. "What did he say?"

Sharp drummed his fingers on the railing in agitation. His head bowed. "It's not looking promising," he confessed. "The man's a mess. Doesn't help that he was slobbering drunk when I found him... and it looks like he's made a habit out of that, lately…"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. "His temper's gotten pretty nasty. If I didn't know better I'd think it was Rancor in there, not Mech. He probably would've throttled me if he'd been steady enough to get his hands around my neck."

"I'm sensing a 'but' here," Rens observed. Sharp shrugged.

"I told him that Marek's leading the charge," he reported. "That seemed to perk his interest." He sighed and looked up at the dark, smog-filled sky. "I told him he has 'til 0700 tomorrow to change his mind. If he doesn't show by then…"

Rens nodded grimly.

"So we wait?" she mumbled irritably. "Fantastic." Sharp snorted.

"You got a better idea?" he questioned, raising his eyebrows. "Mech isn't just going to accept this right away. You know how he is." Begrudgingly, Rens grunted in agreement.

"Fair enough," she relented.

So they waited.

XXX

After an extra hour of Mech moping and wasting himself via Corellian whiskey, the Aqualish bouncer finally got fed up and chucked him out the cantina's back entrance, headfirst into a rubbish pile. "And don't come back 'til you've cleared up that smell!" he hollered, glaring murderously at the clone. "We've got a business to run, here!" He slammed the door shut.

For an indeterminate amount of time, Mech just lay there facefirst in the refuse, waiting until he stopped seeing double before attempting to move. At least twice, he vomited alcohol-tainted bile right there in the muck, marinating his face with the contents of his own stomach when he refused to get up. Bits of rotting food and puke stuck in his hair and beard. Vaguely, Mech couldn't help but wonder if he'd finally managed it. Maybe he was going to die out there, alone, lying in a trash heap. How appropriate.

 _Look at me,_ he thought bitterly, closing his eyes tightly. _To think that I used to be one of the Republic's top soldiers. And yet here I am, out dying in a rubbish pile on some backwater scumbag of a planet. How ironic._ He turned his head to one side, staring at the metal ground of the street. _It'll be midnight soon,_ he thought pensively. _I used to come back from missions a lot at this time of night. My brothers and I would swap stories, chat… laugh… I don't remember the last time I really_ laughed… _I guess I won't get the chance to do it again. Oh well…_ He allowed his body to go completely lax, waiting for the darkness to take him. Until…

"What are you doing down there? On your feet, Republic!" Mech's eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, looking for the source of the voice. But there was no one in sight. After a few minutes of listening, Mech decided he'd just been hearing things. He started to lean back again… "Hey! Poster boy! I'm talking to you!"

Mech couldn't believe his ears. That voice… it sounded like… "Skip?"

"And the grand prize goes to…" came another voice. It sounded like Patch.

"I think he's seen better days, don't you, Ben?" piped up somebody who sounded like Hawkeye. Mech dug a finger in his ear, certain that the alcohol had affected him to the point where he was starting to hallucinate. That had to be it. All of these men were dead.

"Is that a bit of week-old nerf steak stuck to his cheek?" Hawkeye continued. "Ew!"

"Give the man a break, Hawk," Benji's voice argued. "He's had a rough day."

Right then, Mech thought he understood what was going on. Pulling himself up into a full sitting position and putting his head between his knees, he stated, "Oh hell. I'm dead, aren't I?" He grimaced. "And here I thought that the afterlife would be _better_ than reality." Muttering mutinously under his breath about how it smelled just as bad as the _real_ Nar Shadda, he added, "Who knew corpses could have migraines?"

"Oh, you're not dead, Captain," a man who sounded like Zach said sympathetically, the way he would to a very fragile patient. "Though I can promise you that sleeping on top of a garbage pile in the back streets of Nar Shadda won't do much for your health. You really need to take it easy on the whiskey for a while, sir."

"And tell him to take a bath, too," Skip's voice added, laced with distaste. "He smells like a Gammorean who rolled in a pile of rotting bantha poodoo after running naked through the Jundland Wastes for six hours!" Mech scowled. "It's a hard truth, Captain," Skip stated smugly (Mech got a mental image of him crossing his arms and smirking at him). "Live with it."

"Shut up, Skip," Patch growled. "We're trying to motivate him here, not complain about his bathing habits."

"Yeah," Mech grunted, gritting his teeth. "I am _definitely_ dead."

"No." Benji's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You're not dead, Captain. You're fine. Well… sort of," he added sheepishly.

"But you need to get up," Hawkeye added. "You can't give up now. You just can't. People still need you."

Mech snorted. "Need me?" he scoffed, no longer caring if talking to the disembodied voices of his long-dead brothers would make him look insane to any casual observer. "Nobody needs me. They never have, and they never will."

"We needed you!" Skip said fiercely, the volume of his voice loud enough to make Mech fall back into the trash. "We looked up to you – depended on you! And you _never_ let us down while we were alive! Not like now."

Each word was like a slap in the face. Mech was torn between breaking down and cussing his brother out.

"I let you _die,_ damn it!" he yelled instead. "You were under my command, and I let you die! All of you…" He rested his head back in the rubbish. "I failed you as a leader… I failed you as a friend. I'm a fool…"

"Well, of _course_ you're a fool if you've been feeding yourself _that_ kind of druk for ten years!" Patch snapped. "Now get up and get a move on!" An invisible foot kicked him in the shin. Glowering, Mech climbed to his feet. But he didn't make a move to go anywhere. Instead, he glared defiantly out at the darkness.

"I don't much like your tone, soldier!" he snapped, wishing that he could _see_ Patch so that he could slap him upside the head.

There was a moment of silence following his words. Then Zach laughed. "Now _there's_ the Captain Mech we all know!" he cheered. "I was beginning to think he was gone for good. But I guess he's still in there."

Mech sighed. Glancing around the area, he asked them all, "What do you _want_ from me?"

There was a smile in Benji's voice as he answered. "You already know the answer to _that,_ Captain," he said gently. Mech twitched. "The real question is," Benji continued, "Are you willing to do it?"

"If the Alliance falls, our deaths will have been in vain," Skip cautioned. "And if you honor our memories, you'll make sure that that doesn't happen. The galaxy still needs you, Captain."

"Choose well, Mech," Patch concluded. "And may the Force be with you."

Then he woke up.

XXX

The next several hours following that were a bit of a blur. Through a haze of exhaustion, shock and the lingering effects of the alcohol, Mech somehow managed to pick himself up out of the filth, stumble out into the street, and drag himself all the way back to the tiny, run-down apartment building that he was currently renting. From there, he peeled off his ruined armor in favor of a smelly, shabby but slightly less disgusting light brown tunic and yellowed trousers, ran some maintenance on his prosthetic, and even forced himself to eat something from his battered old synthesizer. He passed out on the carpet for maybe an hour or two, waking up again around 0400 in more or less full possession of his wits and a headache worse than anything he'd ever felt. Groaning, the clone hauled himself up into a sitting position and began to weigh his options.

Hallucination or not, that dream he'd had back in the alleyway had really gotten him thinking. His brothers had been heroes – they had died with honor and dignity, fighting for something that they believed with all of their hearts was worth protecting. And even though what Skip had said was no more than a dream, he _was_ right in saying that the condition that Mech had reached was in no way honoring what they had died for. Patch had died trying to warn the others about Order 66 - Benji had died protecting General Phalco _during_ Order 66 – Hawkeye and Zach and Skip had died trying to take back from the Empire what rightfully belonged to the people – and yet here Mech was, slowly poisoning himself on the sidelines and beating himself up over things that he had no control over.

But damn it, he didn't want to watch another friend get killed!

"What am I going to do?" he asked himself out loud. Catching his reflection in one of the grimy windows overlooking the refugee sector, he noticed, for the first time, how terrible he looked. His face was still smeared with oil, dried blood and whiskey, plus some remnants of garbage and vomit from his last hour out. There were dark shadows under his eyes, so prominent that it looked like someone had rubbed his lower lids down with dark purple paint. His hair was so tangled and greasy that it looked like a snake had laid eggs in it, and his beard had really grown out… plus there was the issue of how skinny he'd become. He looked like a stick. And to top it all off, his eyes were so bloodshot that one had to squint to see that they were actually golden brown instead of completely red.

By the Force, he was a mess…

"So this is you now, eh Mech?" he asked his reflection sullenly.

His reflection did not reply.

The captain snorted. "You're pathetic, you know that? What're you doing, moping around here like a scared womp rat when there's a war on? Get moving, you pansy!"

He chucked a boot at the window. Luckily, the glass was thick enough that the boot bounced back harmlessly instead of shattering it.

His reflection remained silent.

Filled with a new determination, Mech climbed to his feet and brushed himself off. "One more go," he swore to himself, making a beeline for the 'fresher. "Just one more. If this doesn't work out, I'm clocking out for good."

He spent two hours trying to get himself cleaned up. It wasn't an easy task. His face was actually simple enough to wash (a surprisingly small amount of scrubbing was required), but everything else was nigh impossible. The knots in his hair were so tight and smelly that he eventually got fed up and hacked the excess length off with a knife. He did the same to his beard. The result was some very spiky, uneven chunks of hair on both head and face, but at least it was out of the way and didn't smell anymore. There wasn't really very much that he could do for his eyes except sleep, so he settled with splashing water onto his face and seeing if flushing them out helped at all (to his surprise, it did). He ate a little bit of food and drank his weight in water. He almost grabbed a bottle of whiskey, but then remembered that the alcohol was part of why he was in this mess in the first place. So he uncorked the bottle and flushed it down the drain. Better to just rid himself of the temptation.

So now that he was clean, there was only one thing left to do. Mech turned his gaze over to his closet, and moved to open it. As the door hissed open, the old clone gazed forlornly at his old, Republic-issued armor. It wasn't that rubbish suit he'd been given by Darth Vader when he became a stormtrooper, nor was it the modified Phase 2 armor that he'd been using during Order 66. It was his original Phase 1 armor, with its squarish helmet (antenna still attached), slightly clunkier design, and the larger pauldron. He'd never been able to force himself to get rid of it. And now it looked like that was about to pay off.

Putting the armor on was harder than it had been twenty years ago. Though his hands and head remembered every strap, buckle and chink as if it had only been yesterday that he last put it on, he _had_ lost a considerable amount of weight since the last time he'd worn it. It felt heavy and foreign on his skeletal frame, and moving around in it was more difficult than it should have been – but he stuck through it. This was something he felt that he had to do.

Gathering a few last possessions together in a small pack and slinging it over his shoulder, Mech looked around the room. He didn't feel any pain at the thought of leaving this place, but he still wasn't sure if he was making the right decision. Hopefully, he wouldn't come to regret this like he had before.

Helmet tucked under one arm and supplies carefully stored in his pack, Mech turned his back on his home and strode out into the bleak but redeeming rays of the morning.

XXX

It was 0720, and Mech still hadn't shown his face. Sharp couldn't afford to grant him any more extra time.

Sighing in disappointment, Sharp removed himself from the railing and raked a hand through his hair dejectedly. Beside him, Rens smoothed out the wrinkles on her tunic and stared sadly at the dock entrance.

"You really thought he was coming, didn't you?" she asked Sharp quietly, sympathy in her voice. Looking down at his hands, he nodded.

Squeezing his hand, the Jedi tried to put on a brave smile. "Well… at least we know that he made it."

"Yeah, if drinking yourself to oblivion in some back alley counts as "making it"." Sharp remarked bitterly. Rens sighed.

"It was worth a shot," she said with conviction. "In the end, he's the only person who can decide. We don't really have much of a say in what he does, do we?"

She rested her hand on Sharp's shoulder. "We'll manage. And so will Mech. Now come on," she added in a lighter tone. "We still need to get to Bespin. Jace is waiting for us, remember?"

"Yeah…" Sharp murmured. He turned away from Pylon 1 and followed Rens towards their ship. But they hadn't made it far when a voice from behind stopped them.

"Hey! Wait up!"

Both rebels whipped around just in time to see Mech run up (dressed in his full Clone Wars armor, for some reason) and skid to a stop in front of them, wheezing. He looked better than he had last night, Sharp noticed; his face was clean, he had trimmed and washed his hair, and the shadows beneath his eyes were less pronounced. Still… judging from how winded he seemed from the run, it would be a while until he had _really_ physically recovered.

"Sorry I'm late," he panted, gripping his knees and staring up at the duo. "I haven't worn this thing in a long time… have to adjust to the weight…" He straightened up, still breathing hard. "Got room for one more, by any chance?"

Rens grinned and extended a hand out to her friend. "Welcome back, Captain Mech," she said graciously. Mech accepted the handshake, but did not smile.

"Don't make me regret this, alright Sharp? You are both to _stay alive._ " He glared at them, daring either of them to argue. Neither did. Rens tossed her head.

"Let's get going, then."

As the trio turned to board the ship, Rens paused, then discreetly tapped Sharp on the shoulder in a manner than avoided Mech's attention. When the younger of the two clones turned to her, she leaned over and spoke to him in a low whisper.

"Did you tell him about the boy?"

Sharp looked at her sadly. "He would never help us," he quietly replied, "if he knew that Skywalker's son was fighting under Marek."

Though his mask hid his face, the grim tone of Sharp's voice made his point clear enough.

 **Notes: Kento=Kento Marek=father of Galen Marek/Starkiller.**

 **Mech knew Echo and Fives because the 323rd and the 501st worked together a lot (Rens and Anakin were old friends) and the duo stood out.**

 **Boil was one of the people who died fighting on Onderon.**

 **I considered putting Rex, Gregor and/or Wolffe on the list of dead people but decided not to since a) their fate is still uncertain and we know we're going to find out more in Rebels or possibly the next show and b) everyone would hate me for killing them.**

 **Mech is one of the few people who knows perfectly well who Vader really is. That's part of why he stuck around so long, because he had trusted and respected Anakin, but once it was clear that Anakin was gone and the Empire was tyrannical and Order 66 had been more-or-less a farce, Mech left.**

 **During the Clone Wars, Mech was normally fairly mild-mannered and level-headed (unlike his superior, Commander Rancor, who was surly and gruff all the time) but if you made Mech angry, he could be terrifying. Hence the infamous scowl and Zach laughing when Mech snapped at them.**


End file.
